


Making Lemonade

by Dayja



Series: Making Lemonade [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Gen, Humor, Pre-Hogwarts, Smart Harry, not that Harry notices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:17:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayja/pseuds/Dayja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life has given Harry a lot of lemons: dead parents, a cupboard under the stairs, horrible clothes, Harry Hunting.  The result should have been a downtrodden, sad little boy.  It isn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Lemonade

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from Harry Potter.

Harry Potter was almost four years old when his aunt took him into the kitchen and told him to make lemonade.  Some children might have been resentful.  Dudley didn’t have to make anything, after all.

Harry was not resentful in the least.  His aunt might turn her nose up at him and scold him, and call him useless, but she still needed his help.  Harry got to help his aunt and Dudley never did.  Harry felt important.  He also felt a bit at a loss.  He didn’t know how to make lemonade.  Wasn’t it a kind of fizzy drink?  How did he get the bubbles in?

His aunt stuck a sack full of lemons on the table, next to the juicer.  Her expression very much looked as though she had gotten a head start on juicing the lemons with her mouth.  Harry didn’t notice.  That’s just how his aunt always looked.

“Well?” she said when Harry just stared at the lemons.  “Go on!  Start juicing!”

With a shrug, the tiny boy stepped up on his stool, grabbed a lemon, and sawed it carefully in half.  He had to be careful with knives, his aunt had said, or he wouldn’t be allowed to use them anymore.  Knives are DANGEROUS.  Dudley wasn’t even allowed a butter knife, but Harry was able to cut up vegetables.  Harry was able to do a lot of things Dudley couldn’t do.  All Dudley was allowed to do was watch TV or play silly baby games.  He wasn’t asked to do anything important.

Juicing a lemon turned out to be pretty much the same as juicing an orange.  It was hard work.  He had to put his whole weight on top of the lemon and turn it back and forth to get every last bit of juice out.  It was a lot of work for just a tiny bit of juice.  By the time had had worked his way through half the bag, his shoulders ached and his arms shook and even his legs felt a bit stiff.  Maybe it was harder work than making orange juice.  At least oranges were bigger.

“Is this enough lemonade?” he asked his aunt when she happened into the kitchen again.  “How do you get the bubbles in?”  He had tried shaking it, but all that had happened was a bit of froth on the top.

“It isn’t going to be fizzy lemonade,” his aunt answered sharply.  “Stupid, ignorant boy.  You don’t make lemonade just by squeezing lemons.  Here!” She went and got a glass down and poured a bit of his hard earned juice into the cup.  “Drink that!  Just you see!”

All that hard work had made Harry thirsty, and so, with a shrug, he took the glass and gulped it down.  Blech!  He made a face.  Lemonade was not tasty at all.  He didn’t know why Dudley liked it so much.

“You have to add sugar water, you stupid boy,” his aunt told him, smiling nastily at him.  “Here’s the recipe, here!”

It wasn’t the first time his aunt had waved a recipe at him and wanted him to follow it.  Harry sighed.  Sometimes his aunt could be a very stupid, ignorant woman.

“Aunt Petunia,” he said patiently, “I’m only three.  I don’t know how to read.”

“You’ll be four next month!” his aunt answered.  “It’s high time you learned and stopped being so lazy around here!”  This didn’t make much sense, considering that Dudley was four years old and he didn’t know how to read so much as his own name.  Maybe it was just another one of those things that Harry was able to do and Dudley wasn’t, like knowing how to weed the garden or set the table.  And Harry rather liked the idea of being able to read.

“Will you teach me to read, Aunt Petunia?” Harry asked.

“Stupid boy,” she answered.  “I don’t have time for such nonsense.  Teach yourself!”

“Okay,” Harry answered, “What does this recipe say?”

His aunt’s mouth squeezed up as though she were the one who had drunk the horrible lemonade, but nonetheless she told him.  She was even kind enough to jab her finger at the bits she was reading, as though to say _this_ is what it says, you stupid, ignorant boy, now pay attention!  Harry paid attention.

Making lemonade took lemon juice, water, and sugar.  Harry discovered that lemon juice tasted horrible, but lemonade was lovely.  Who knew that one could make such a delicious drink out of such a disgusting fruit?

There was probably a lesson to be learned there.  What Harry actually learned, aside from how to make lemonade, was how to read words like ‘lemon’ and ‘sugar’.

When harry was four and a half, he read through all of Dudley’s picture books.  Normally, Dudley would have protested that sort of endeavor on Harry’s part.  After all, the picture books were his.  Just because he didn’t read them himself didn’t mean the freak got to!

But Harry wasn’t just reading the picture books.  He was reading them out loud to Dudley.  That meant that Harry wasn’t a book thief; he was entertainment.  At four years old, Dudley had yet to reject books as dull and stupid, quite likely because at four years old no one had tried to force Dudley to read any for himself.  Books, at that age, meant cuddling with his mum while she read.  But his mum would get tired of reading to him after just one reading and tell him to go play.  Harry didn’t get tired.  He’d read the same book again and again and again.  Also, sometimes he’d make things up, and that was funny.

‘ _Happy the frog hopped on the hob_ ,’ said the book, ‘ _Too hot!  Too hot!  And off Happy hopped._ ’

“Happy the frog hopped on the hob,” Harry read, “Too hot! Too hot! And then he burned into a crisp and was eaten for dinner.  ‘Mmm,’ said the boy.  ‘Crispy’.”

Then Dudley would laugh until he was red in the face.  Aunt Petunia was less pleased when Dudley demanded frogs for dinner.

One of Dudley’s books was about a squirrel.  Like most of the animals in the books, it could talk.  (And like most of those books, it wound up in the rubbish bin after Dudley started asking why the squirrels in the park didn’t talk).  This squirrel was called Sammy, and Sammy lived inside a tree.  His home was cold and bare and ugly.  Then Sammy made it cozy and warm and pretty.

Harry read that book and he looked at the pictures and he thought about his cupboard under the stairs.  That was where Harry slept.  It was not a very nice room.  It didn’t have furniture, like Dudley’s room, nor was it even particularly clean.  Sammy’s home in the tree hadn’t been clean either.  Sammy didn’t put up with that.  The squirrel made a broom out of dried leaves and dusted and swept and cleaned it up.

Harry knew that Dudley was not a particularly bright child and that he didn’t know how to clean.  That’s why Harry and his aunt did it for him.  Harry did know how to clean.  Perhaps that’s why his cupboard was left like it was?  His aunt knew Harry was a big boy who could clean for himself.  She probably thought he was being stupid and ignorant for putting it off so long!

Harry didn’t even have to make rudimentary cleaning tools out of twigs and leaves.  He had a duster and broom and mop and rags.  So one day, Harry dragged out his mattress and old clothes and got to work.  It took him all morning to remove every last cobweb and speck of dust.  It took him the rest of the afternoon to take care of the mess he made in the hallway.

That night, for the first time that he could remember, he went to sleep on his freshly washed sheets, wrapped in his nice clean blanket, and without a single spider to keep him company.

Cleaning his room was just the first step.  Next came the beautification process.  He started with furniture.  Of course, his aunt and uncle weren’t about to just give him furniture even if he had decided to ask, but Sammy the squirrel wasn’t given furniture either.  He made his own!

Every week, numerous cardboard food boxes went into the rubbish bin.  So did old cans and bottles.  Considering that it was usually Harry who was responsible for the trash, it was quite easy for him to start saving things.  Dudley’s safety scissors turned out to be a bit rubbish at cutting through cardboard or plastic, but Harry had been using the kitchen knives to cut for ages.

Before long, Harry had made his own dresser, nightstand, and table.  They were all quite a bit smaller than Dudley’s furniture, of course, but then Harry was smaller than Dudley and his room was small too, being roughly the size of the bathroom.  They were also flimsy constructs, but Harry was quite pleased with them.  Finally, he drew happy pictures and hung them all over the walls.  His room was cozy, warm, and pretty.  Over the years, his constructed furniture and decorative sense only improved.

When the boys were five, Dudley went to school and Harry stayed home.  His aunt blubbered over her ickle Duddykins growing up, and started hanging his schoolwork up on the fridge, gushing over his ever achievement.

Harry was never praised.  He was put in charge of the garden, a good deal of the household chores, and the cooking.  Harry watched his cousin being praised and coddled and given snacks and toys and candy.  He watched his cousin sitting in front of the telly or amidst his toys.  He watched Dudley struggle with the counting, and scream and throw things.

Dudley, he realized with a great deal of sympathy, must be a bit simple.  He knew about kids like that, because whenever they saw one at the park, his aunt would turn her nose up and usher Dudley away, as though afraid it might be catching.  He heard other parents and kids whisper about those kids.  Some said they shouldn’t come to the park.  Other, kinder parents, told their children to be nice to them because they are special and you need to be gentle with special people.

People had to be nice to Dudley because he was special and he needed to be babied, a bit.  He needed all those toys and he needed everyone to tell him how special he was.  Harry didn’t need that.  Harry’s praise wasn’t in words; it was in seeing a job well done.  It was in the way his family scarfed down the food he prepared.  It was in the way his aunt’s friends all praised her on how clean she kept her house.  Dudley had toys and tantrums.  Harry had responsibilities and jobs.

“Look, Freak,” Dudley said to Harry.  “I can write my name, and you can’t because you don’t go to school and you’re a stupid freak.”

“Good job, Dudley!” Harry told him, and very kindly didn’t point out that he had, in fact, written ‘DubLy’.  “You are so smart!”  Then Dudley puffed up proudly and went to show his mum.  Harry went out to work on the garden.  He loved working on the garden.  There was something amazing about something growing up out of practically nothing.  His favorite time of day was the early morning, before breakfast got started, when it was just him and he could sit out in the garden surrounded by growing things.  Sometimes he would tend his plants, and sometimes he would just talk to them or sing to them.  Sometimes the tiny sparkly bug people would come and play.  There in the morning dew, when most of the world was still sleeping, it was like the garden was telling him secrets.

Then of course the world would wake up, and Harry had to make breakfast.  His uncle, who often seemed quite as special as Dudley, would grumble about things being burnt and threaten to lock Harry in his cupboard.

“You are so smart, uncle,” Harry told him, studying the perfectly cooked bacon on his uncle’s plate, “Noticing all those burnt spots.  Do you want me to take it away?”  His uncle gave him a puzzled glare and clutched his plate possessively.

After breakfast, and several tantrums later, Dudley went to school and his uncle went to work.  Harry cleaned up after breakfast.  Harry was so good at it by this point that his aunt didn’t need to help him at all.  There was something very satisfying, Harry discovered, about making a room spotless.  Sometimes, he timed himself to see how fast he could manage it.

Then he would clean the rest of the house.  It never took particularly long, considering it was something done daily.  By mid morning, his aunt had usually returned from dropping off Dudley and any other little errands she had that morning, and Harry was usually done with the chores.  They left each to their own devices.  Unlike Dudley, Harry didn’t need his aunt to arrange for Harry to be entertained.  Harry enjoyed reading to himself or to his garden, working on improving his bedroom, polishing things until they were shiny, drawing pictures, climbing the tree in the backyard, and playing make believe.  Not that he knew the words ‘make believe’ since they were considered about as naughty as the word ‘magic’ in that household.  He didn’t really call it anything; he just did it.

Sometimes the tree was a boat and Harry was a pirate.  Sometimes he was a squirrel.  Sometimes he was a puppy.  Harry liked to make things for his games too, like a cardboard sword or a little cat made out of a plastic bottle.  For one year he had all the day to himself.

Then the boys were six and it was Harry’s turn to start school.  At first they wanted to stick Harry in the remedial class with the students who were a bit behind the other kids.  After all, he wasn’t able to identify any of the letters of the alphabet, didn’t respond when his name was called, and his aunt told them all how he had never been to school before and she always found him a bit slow.

Harry was very friendly and social with the other kids.  He told them ‘good job!’ when they showed off.  He never tattled if someone pushed him over.  He shared his toys and never screamed and he always, always smiled.  Then about a week into the new school year, his teacher came upon him in the reading corner, reading a book out loud to his classmates.

“I didn’t know them,” Harry told the teacher after she asked him why he had acted like he didn’t know any of his letters.  “I just learned how to read them, not how to say them.  No one asked me questions about reading.”

By the end of the second week, Harry’s aunt had to have a meeting with the school.  They wanted to move Dudley into Harry’s classroom, and Harry into the next year up with the older kids.  Harry’s aunt was furious on both accounts, no matter how the teachers tried to word things with a positive spin.  The same words that had so pleased her when they were directed towards Harry became a dire insult when directed at her Diddykins.

Harry’s uncle shouted a lot and then tried to lock Harry in his cupboard without dinner.  It didn’t particularly work because Harry had fixed the lock so that he could always open his door at any time when he was five and because Harry knew the contents of the kitchen better than anyone in the house and was able to silently fix himself a plate after everyone had gone to bed.  Besides, Harry preferred to sit in his cozy little room with his schoolbooks rather than listen to his uncle scream.

In the end, they explained to Dudley that he was so special and so good at school that the teachers wanted to put him in a special classroom.  The freak, they told him, was such an egghead suck-up showoff that they had to stick him with the big kids and he had to read big boring books and do lots of maths instead of fun things like Dudley was going to do.

“And don’t come running to us if those big kids bully you,” his uncle told Harry sternly.  “It’s your own fault for trying to look better than Dudley.”

The big kids did try to bully Harry.  They weren’t particularly good at it.  Harry was used to being the smallest person around, used to being called far worse things than ‘baby’, and he was used to being pushed or kicked.  The new kids had nothing on Dudley.  In fact, the majority of them were more likely to run to the teacher and tattle on the bullies than they were to join in and try to hurt the weird little kid who never fought back or cried.

Harry loved school.  His school had a library filled with new books to read, it had a playground that was more fun to climb than his tree, and it had lots of kids.  Sure some of the kids were special in the same way as Dudley, but many of the kids were like Harry.  Playing pirates was a lot more fun when you had a whole crew to play with you and fight against.  Pretending to be a squirrel was more fun when there was a whole zoo of animals playing with you.  Then there were sports.  Harry hadn’t known about sports before school; Dudley had never been interested in anything that involved a lot of running.  Harry discovered he loved sports.

In a different lifetime, Harry and Dudley would have been in the same year.  Eventually, they’d have been in the same class.  In that lifetime, Harry might have felt safer hiding his own abilities so as to not show up Dudley.  In that lifetime, Harry would never have any friends because Dudley would have scared them off.

That’s not how Harry’s school years went.  Harry was at the top of his class, despite the other children having a head start.  Harry was well liked by most of the students.  Dudley was feared by his own classmates.  He was not feared by Harry’s.  By Christmas, the boys that had started off teasing Harry and pushing him down were the same boys who defended him if they saw Dudley being a bully.

“You should fight back, Harry,” his new friends told him.  “It’s not right to let people bully you.”

Faced with kids who were larger than him and meaner than him, Dudley ran to his mum and wailed about Harry’s gang of bullies and thugs.  Harry’s aunt marched up to the school and demanded something be done.  There were long meetings on the subject.

In the end, there was an entire assembly on bullying, and teachers kept a sharp eye out for all instances.  Harry was not bullied at school.  He had lots of friends to play with.  At home, he quickly learned to avoid Dudley until he’d gotten his after school tantrum out of the way.  Unlike the teachers, his aunt and uncle saw no reason to stop Dudley from hitting the freak.

Harry sometimes felt saddened that his own cousin felt the need to bully others.  He felt like a rift had come between them, even greater than the rift caused by their differing intellects.  That didn’t stop Harry from looking out for Dudley.  He still smiled and praised him when Dudley tried to show off his work.  He even discovered alternative recipes after they started studying health and he realized all those sweets were the reason Dudley had grown so huge. 

This was of particular importance to Harry considering that Harry got all of Dudley’s old clothes.  If Dudley continued to expand at the rate he had been, Harry would soon be swimming in his old clothes. As it was, he was currently wearing, at age six, things that had fit Dudley when he was four.  A four year old’s fashion is not the sort of thing one wants to be wearing when one’s peers are in the seven to eight age range.

It took Harry a few years, nonetheless, to find a real remedy to his clothing issues.

When Harry was eight, he was given two things which ultimately helped him to resolve his clothing issue.  The first was a pair of glasses.  The second was a particularly nasty jumper by his aunt. 

The glasses were brilliant.  He hadn’t even realized how bad his eyesight had gotten until he could suddenly see again.  Dudley celebrated his cousin’s new fortune by sitting on them.

By the second time his glasses’ frame had broken, Harry recognized that sellotape was not a long term solution.  His aunt and uncle, of course, told him they weren’t throwing good money after bad and if he couldn’t take care of his things he’d just have to deal with it.

The jumper, being the second item he received, was less worn than usual as Dudley had always refused to put it on when it had been his. 

“Thank you, Aunt Petunia,” said Harry politely, “But I prefer my current jumper.  That one’s hideous.”

“You’ll wear it, and like it!” his aunt told him.  “If you think the clothes I give you are so hideous, why don’t you get your own clothes!”

She wasn’t serious, of course.  She knew that Harry had no money.  Harry, however, turned thoughtful.  By this age, he was very used to making things for himself.  His bedroom furniture, for instance, had come a long way from the poor efforts of a four year old, even if he did still use discarded materials for the creation.  Instead of the old drawings he used to have taped to his wall, he had painted an entire wall mural.  He had even painted one wall to look like a window out on a garden, and hung his old baby sheets up for curtains.

He had already been playing around with the idea of making himself some new frames for his glasses.  After all, it was the lenses that were important, not the frames.  Surely he could develop something that couldn’t be broken?  And as long as he was designing it himself, why not make those frames stylish and unique?  And now that the idea was there…why not fix his entire outfit?

He had no idea why it had taken him that long to think to turn his creative efforts to his wardrobe.  He had been wearing Dudley’s cast-offs all his life.  He always looked a bit ridiculous in the too large clothing, and quite often the clothes came to him torn or stained or both.  He just wore what he was given and never really thought about it.  He had never been particularly interested in clothes.

It turned out that Dudley’s size was, in fact, an advantage when it came to altering the clothes to suit Harry.  It meant that he had a surplus of material.  It occurred to him, when he first got to work, that it would have been really difficult if it had been Harry who had grown big and fat while Dudley had been small and skinny.

He started small, simply by cutting off the puffy balls that had been put all over the awful jumper.  His glasses were even simpler; he kept the repaired frames and wrapped a pipe cleaner around them to hide the repair. 

After that he grew more ambitious.  His first attempts at significantly altering or improving his clothes were mostly disasters.  Harry knew nothing about sewing or knitting or how cloth worked.  His school library was also rather lacking in that area, though there were a few crafts books that covered knitting and crochet. 

Then Harry discovered the public library.  It was the school librarian who mentioned it.  It had an entire row of books on design, several on sewing, and an entire crafts section.

By the age of nine, Harry’s clothes had gone from shoddy to unique.  Some of his color choices might have been questionable, but the clothes fit him perfectly and his patchwork was so natural that it looked like that diamond patch or the dinosaur shaped patch was supposed to be there and not the result of a lot of hard work.  He also had a large number of jumpers (none with fuzzy balls), and socks, scarves, and mittens.  His aunt let him have lots of yarn considering he was making things for the entire family as well as himself.  He even crocheted a stuffed bear for Dudley, which Dudley had a great deal of fun tearing apart.  Harry never made toys for himself.  He wasn’t a baby, after all.

When Harry was ten years old he talked to a snake in the zoo.  He spent the resulting time while he was supposedly locked in his cupboard working on his wardrobe.  There was a uniform at his new school and he was having some difficulty making Dudley's clothes match the required wear, even after they were dyed gray.

A few months later, Harry got a letter in the post.  Harry never got letters.  This one resulted in his entire family uprooting themselves and moving to a shack on a rock.

Then Harry turned eleven, and his life once again changed.


End file.
